The Missing One (55 page)

‘Susannah,' Ana says, quite sharply. ‘Get yourself up.'

But she doesn't move. Ana reaches down to her wrist and feels for a pulse. There is something about the movement that makes me think Ana might once have been a nurse. My body feels weak and my leg is throbbing. So is the lump on the back of my head. I need to change into dry clothes and get Finn into the warm boat.

‘Silly girl,' Ana murmurs. ‘Silly girl.'

‘Ana?' I say, quietly. ‘Is she injured?'

‘She'll be a'right,' Ana says without turning round. She scrapes Susannah's hair off her face. ‘There, now.'

Susannah suddenly kneels up. Her mouth is slack and she looks like an old woman who has taken her teeth out. A hissing sound comes out of her dry lips.

‘Let's get you up then,' says Ana. ‘Good girl.'

Sven hauls Susannah off the floor by her armpits and she stands at last, her head and shoulders sunk like a rag doll. Her breathing is laboured.

Behind her, down the stairs in the cabin, I see my bag lying half open on the floor – it contains my wallet, our passports, the photos, the red file. Susannah must have taken it out of some confused urge to remove evidence, even
though the cuttings are not proof of anything, really, except an unspeakable loss.

*

We huddle in the cabin of Sven's boat, opposite Susannah, who sits with her head almost between her knees. She doesn't raise it to look at me. Ana is next to her and Sven is at the wheel, steering us towards Raven Bay. Every now and then, Ana reaches out a dry hand and pulls the blanket up on Susannah's hunched shoulders.

I have peeled off my wet things and am wearing a pair of Sven's overalls, which are about ten times too big and smell faintly of fish, a huge T-shirt and fleece under them and the blanket over the top of it all. Finn is curled inside the blanket with me, sucking his thumb and pointing, every now and then, at objects, as if he will control the world by naming things. He has never said so many words. It is fascinating, and disturbing at the same time.

‘Cup,' he says.

And I say, ‘That's right, cup.'

Then after a few moments. ‘Boot.'

‘Yes, boot.'

Finally, he points to Susannah. But he can't think of the word.

I hug him to me. ‘It's OK, love, it's OK now. I've got you.'

The boat bumps onwards towards Raven Bay. I wonder if he will be permanently damaged by this experience. He seems calm, but he has been through so much in the last twenty-four hours.

Then I wonder if plunging into sub-zero water can damage an unborn child.

Sven's boat bumps on. I can't move my leg, which is planted inside Sven's enormous wellington boot. I looked down at it when I changed out of my wet things, and there was blood, and the flesh was pink and raw and open. I will deal with it when we get to Raven Bay. But it hurts badly now and whenever the rubber shaft of the boot presses against it, the pain is searing. I ease my leg gingerly out of Sven's boot and rest it on top of my bag.

I cannot think about what Susannah would have done out there on the ocean with my baby. I cannot allow myself to think about what could have happened if adrenalin hadn't propelled me up the coastline and then off that rock.

I can't think about the contents of the red file. Not yet. But I do know that this is the story that has been crouching in the shadows as I poked and pried and questioned my way through the past few days. In fact, this is the story that's been lurking inside me for my whole life.

That little boy with his dense fringe and red wellies looks like Finn because he is Finn's uncle. My brother. I had a brother.

I imagine a little boy bravely grabbing his daddy's leg as Susannah's oar smashes down. Jonas topples, Kit clings and the boat tilts, tipping everyone, the wave rising behind the two of them. There would have been a horrific moment when my mother knew what was going to happen – saw the wave and couldn't stop it – then it came over, and took them both, swallowed them.

His father is mine. My father is not my father. I had
a brother, not much more than a year older than me – a brother who died.

Other things leap out at me. Harry Halmstrom. He really is my grandfather – and suddenly I understand what his words meant – Jonas was his son. Even through the fog of dementia, Harry Halmstrom knew that something was rotten about his son's death.
He could swim like a fish
. He just didn't know about Susannah. If I'm right about this, then Harry Halmstrom is my paternal grandfather.

And I had a brother. I had a brother who drowned because of something Susannah did almost forty years ago and she's been carrying the guilt and terror of that moment ever since. No wonder, when I arrived on her doorstep, she looked as if she'd seen a ghost. She had.

She is unwell. Dangerously so.

My poor mother.

But then again – she lied to me. My mother lied to me my whole life. How could she? So did my father. Both of them have lied to me about everything.

More and more thoughts roar through my head. I imagine my mother up here – out there – with Jonas on these unpredictable seas while my father – whilst Graham – sat heartbroken in California, cerebrally sketching out blueprints, studying in silent libraries. I remember Susannah saying he was a ‘fucking saint'. She is right about that. He not only forgave my mother, he took her back and remained devoted to her for nearly forty years. He raised me as his own.

The foundations of my identity are crumbling. I am not the firstborn. I'm my mother's middle child. I am not my
father's biological child at all. I am something – someone – else entirely. My parents are liars. I have different blood in my veins, a different heritage. I am related to an old Swedish man with dementia. I had a brother, a brother who died.

I need to talk to Alice. Alice must know all this too. This will release her from something too. I need to talk to my sister. And to my father – oh my God, do I need to talk to him.

Sven's boat bumps on across the waves. Finn points and names. ‘Water.' ‘Boat.' I hold on to him and I don't want to think these thoughts, but I can't stop.

What on earth was my mother thinking, taking a toddler and a baby – me – out on a boat on these dangerous seas to chase after killer whales with a storm coming in? She would never have forgiven herself. It must have eaten her away. It did eat her away.

The guilt has certainly been too much for Susannah. I look across at the matted crown of her head. This is a dreadful burden for anyone to carry. I am not surprised that Finn, with his red wellies and his dimpled chin, triggered mayhem in her mind.

Through the mist I can see the flickering lights of Raven Bay. The boat bumps on. Sven mutters into his radio, and it crackles and someone barks back. Susannah doesn't move. She stares at the floor, catatonic, as if sleeping with her eyes open.

I squeeze Finn's warm body closer to mine and I wonder what nightmares my little boy will have of sea and boats and screaming – long after he has forgotten he was ever here.

But he is safe now. And we are going home.

We must make an odd sight, the five of us coming up the quay, our breath mingling above our heads.

There is Ana, striding ahead with a slight stoop under an oversized man's coat, her hat rammed tightly on her head. There is Sven, supporting Susannah, who is no longer upright, but slumped onto him like a drunkard with tangled hair and legs not quite moving straight. Then there is Finn, toddling along in his pyjamas and fleece, holding my hand but bending to look at a rock, a lost pen, a fragment of paper, a stick, trying to pick things up, or poke them or bash them, pointing at buildings, the sky, a person, naming everything he can. And finally there is me, hopping beside him in absurdly large fisherman's clothing, and damp size fourteen wellingtons. I am hopping, because every time my right foot touches the ground, pain ricochets up my body, bringing a wave of heat, then a chill, then nausea.

But I don't care. This pain doesn't matter. It's just an injury. It will heal.

*

Sven hauls Susannah down the guest house corridor and into Ana's kitchen. The house is so warm and smells of laundry and wood polish. He eases Susannah into a kitchen chair and she slumps, then leans slowly forwards until her head rests on the pine table top. Her arms hang down like a puppet's. Ana comes round and kneels next to her, saying something. Sven stands above them. His beard shines under the bright kitchen lights. He looks ridiculously calm.

I call to Ana that I need to use the phone and then, hoiking Finn onto my hip, I go to the hall and dial Doug's mobile. It clicks straight to voicemail. I leave a brief message, trying to keep my voice very even, saying everything is fine, don't worry about a thing, I have Finn and we're going to try and get a flight home tonight. Then I ring his office: the answerphone. He never even listens to that but I leave the same message. Then I ring home and do the same. I hang up and dial Alice's mobile.

‘Oh my God – I'm about to go into a meeting, but do you have Finn?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh thank God. Where were they? The holiday house?' I can tell by the relief in her voice that she was far more worried than she'd let on in our phone call the day before.

‘They were at the floathouse.'

‘The what?'

‘The holiday house. Alice—'

‘Christ, Kal, I actually didn't get much sleep last night after you called.'

‘Nor did I.'

‘Is Finn really OK? Are you OK? So what happened?'

‘I've … it's been … ' My voice wavers for a second. ‘Holy crap, Alice, I've found out all this stuff – this insane, mad stuff about who I am, and who Mum was. I can't … it's … I think Dad isn't my real father. He lied – they both did, all our lives, they've lied to us. It explains so much. I think I've just found out that my real father was a whale expert called Jonas Halmstrom. Also, my God, I think we had a brother. I think we had a brother who died up here when he was just a toddler – Mum lost a child – and the man – Jonas, he died too; they both drowned. Alice, I think Mum and Dad have lied to us our whole lives. She lived up here, and married this man and had a little boy called Kit, and then me – and … Susannah … She … '

‘Kal!' Alice shouts me down. ‘What the hell are you talking about?'

I take a long, deep breath. I don't blame her: if it were the other way around, I'd assume she was having a breakdown too. She's so used to being the rational one, but for once, I'm the one who has the overview. ‘Look. Don't worry. OK? We can talk about everything when I get home. I've got so much to tell you, but I can't do it like this. All that matters is Finn is safe. We're fine.'

‘Did you just tell me that Dad isn't your biological father?'

‘No. No – I don't think he is. Mum was married before, to a man called Jonas. And they had a child before me – they had a boy called Kit. I … Christ, Alice. I actually can't really get my head round this myself … '

‘Right.' I imagine her standing up, smoothing down her work skirt. ‘OK. I'm getting on a plane. This is all … where are you now?'

‘No! Don't you dare come out. I'm back on Raven Island – where I called you from yesterday. I'm perfectly safe. Finn's safe. I haven't gone mad. And we're coming home – I'm going to go and get on the next plane I can. You have to call Doug, though – I've been trying but I can't get through to him. You have to get through to him and tell him Finn's safe and we're coming home, because he'll be panicking. Tell him I'm going straight to the airport the moment I can get off this island and I'm going to get the first flight home.'

‘You have to promise me you're OK. Promise?' I hear her phone muffle, and the faint ‘Wait.' I imagine her, in her suit, her blonde hair pulled back, holding a finger up to a minion –
one minute
.

‘I really am. But, Alice – my God, this is mind-blowing stuff.'

‘You found out that Mum was married before?'

‘Yes. The Halmstrom – it came from him – this man – Jonas. My … ' but I can't say it.

‘OK. Look. You have to phone me when you know what plane you're on so I can tell Doug, OK? And phone me anyway, the minute you get to civilization. Just … how do you know this stuff, Kal? Where did you get this information from?'

‘Susannah. Sort of. But it's all true – I know it's true because I've seen newspaper cuttings with my name, and Mum's, and his, Jonas Halmstrom, and the little boy – my
brother. It's real. I have all the evidence, Alice. I've got it all with me.'

‘Shit. Can you bring everything home?'

‘Of course, I'm bringing it home.'

‘Shit, Kal, I mean –
shit
.'

‘It's OK, Alice. It's all OK, I promise. I have to go. I'm really sorry I did this to you. I'm sorry I've worried you like this.'

‘I've worried about you my whole life,' she says, shakily.

‘Yes, well, you can stop now.' I straighten up. ‘OK?'

Finn tries to grab the cord of the phone, wriggling his weight forwards. ‘Dat!' He reaches for it, and my foot hits the floor; white hot pain shoots up my leg. ‘OK,' I half shout. ‘I have to go.'

‘Kiss Finn for me. And call me the moment you get off that island.'

‘I might not have a signal … '

But she has already hung up.

Finn is struggling to be put down so I let him – but keep a tight hold on his hand. He toddles busily towards the kitchen, then spots a big tabby cat sitting on a chair near the doorway.

‘Cat!' he gasps. He rushes towards it. ‘Cat!'

‘Be gentle,' I say as he plunges both hands into the cat's fur. It leaps up and stalks away.